The twenty minutes dissolved faster than any of the hours she'd spent drawing.
By the time the bailiff called, "All rise," again, Amara's legs had just stopped shaking. The moment the judge re-entered, they started up like they'd been waiting for a cue.
"Be seated," the judge said, settling behind the bench. She glanced down at her notes, then at the counsel tables. "I've reviewed the filings and exhibits. Before I rule on the motion, I want a more complete record on one narrow point: the source of the defendant's inspiration."
Her gaze landed squarely on Amara.
"I'm going to take brief testimony from Ms. Reyes," she said. "It will be limited. Mr. Patel, you may call your client."
Patel stood. "Yes, Your Honor. The defense calls Amara Reyes."
Her own name sounded distant, like it belonged to someone less sweaty.
She followed the clerk's gesture to the witness stand. The wood rail felt smooth under her palm, worn by years of other people's terror.
"Raise your right hand," the clerk said.
She did.
"Do you swear the testimony you are about to give in this matter will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, under penalty of perjury?"
"I do," she heard herself say.
She sat. The chair was higher than the counsel seats, angled just enough that she could see both the judge and the lawyer's tables in one sweep. A microphone waited inches from her mouth, as if eager.
Patel stepped to the lectern, offering her a small, encouraging smile. "Ms. Reyes," he began, "can you briefly tell the Court what you do?"
"I… draw comics," she said. Her voice came out thinner than she liked. She leaned closer to the mic. "Webcomics. I write and illustrate them. I freelance too, for ads and stuff, but Alpha of the Boardroom is my main work."
"How long have you been working on Alpha?"
"About three years," she said. "Posting it for two. The early chapters… are rough. Don't read those."
A few chuckles flickered in the benches. The judge's mouth twitched again. That helped.
"And how do you come up with your scenes?" Patel asked. "In a general sense."
She exhaled slowly. "I consume a lot of media," she said. "Movies, TV, other comics. I listen to too many podcasts about rich people behaving badly. I people-watch. Sometimes I steal the way a stranger holds their coffee, or how a building lobby feels, and build around that."
She hesitated. "Sometimes the scenes just… drop in," she added. "Like… dreams. I wake up and it's there—dialogue, framing, camera angle. I write it down before it evaporates."
She hadn't meant to say that last part out loud. It slipped out on a tide of honesty.
A soft murmur went through the benches. The word dreams carried, small but weird, through the room.
Patel nodded, unfazed. "When you say 'dreams,' you mean…?"
"Literal dreams," she said. "Nightmares, sometimes. Or the hazy half-asleep scenes where your brain is like, 'By the way, here's an entire monologue for your villain, you're welcome.' It's… an artist thing. Not prophetic visions," she added quickly, catching the way a reporter's pen had suddenly started flying. "Just subconscious remixing."
"Did you ever dream specifically about Mr. Valtor?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Not… him. I didn't know who he was." She swallowed. "I dreamed about a man in a tower who happened to look like him, apparently. But I didn't wake up and go, 'Ah yes, Lucian Valtor came to me in the night.'"
Another ripple of restrained laughter. The judge shot a brief warning look toward the benches; the sound died.
"Have you ever had access to Valtor Group's internal spaces?" Patel asked. "Private floors, non-public offices, anything like that?"
"No," she said. "I've never been inside their building before the meeting we talked about. I don't… socialize in billionaire circles."
"And prior to this lawsuit, did anyone from Valtor Group, or anyone claiming to know Mr. Valtor personally, ever contact you about your comic?"
"No," she said. "Not that I know of."
Patel nodded. "Thank you. No further questions at this time, Your Honor."
The judge inclined her head. "Mr. Hale?"
Adrien was already on his feet.
He walked to the lectern with the easy confidence of someone taking a familiar stage. "Thank you, Your Honor." He turned slightly toward Amara, expression professional, almost gentle. "Good afternoon, Ms. Reyes."
"Hi," she said, before her brain could translate that to "good afternoon."
"You testified just now," he said, "that some of your scenes 'come from dreams.' Is that right?"
"Yes," she said slowly.
"And you also testified that you did not know who my client was when you began this comic."
"Correct."
He nodded as if tucking that into a neat mental drawer. "Let's talk about specifics," he said. "Because in law, we live and die by specifics."
He picked up a paper from his table and held it up. "This is Exhibit 7," he said. "A panel from Episode 54 of Alpha of the Boardroom. Do you recognize it?"
The screen on the wall flicked on again. There, blown up larger than her head, was the panel in question—one she'd almost forgotten in the avalanche of later drama.
Her Alpha sat on the edge of a bed, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie undone, hand bare.
No ring.
The focus of the panel was his fingers—long, elegant, resting on his knee. And on the ring finger, just below the knuckle where the band would usually sit, a pale crescent of scar tissue curved around the base.
The text bubble over his head in that scene read: "Some marks don't show unless you take something off."
Her heart thudded.
"Yes," she said. Her mouth felt dry. "That's my panel."
"This was published… about a year ago," Adrien said. "Nine months before this lawsuit. Correct?"
She nodded. "Sounds right."
"You drew that scar deliberately," he said. "It isn't a random ink blot. It's clearly rendered. Agreed?"
"Yes," she said. "I draw a lot of scars. It's kind of my thing."
He stepped away from the lectern and walked a few paces closer to the screen, pointer in hand like a professor.
"You also drew this ring," he went on, clicking to another slide—a close-up from a different episode, where the Alpha's hand hovered over a contract. The ring, with the dark stone and heavy band, was centered. "Again, deliberately."
"Yes," she said. "That's… his ring."
Adrien turned back toward the bench. "Your Honor, for the record, we submitted an affidavit and photo evidence confirming that Mr. Valtor wears a ring that is substantially similar to this one. He has done so for years. He rarely appears in public without it."
The judge nodded. "I've reviewed that."
Adrien shifted his attention back to Amara. "Now," he said, voice still calm, "you've also testified you've never met my client before, and had no access to his private life. Is that correct?"
"Yes," she said.
He picked up another page from the plaintiff's table. "I'd like to read from Mr. Valtor's affidavit," he said. "Paragraph twelve." He looked down. "'I have a small crescent scar on my left ring finger, just below where my ring sits. I received it at age twelve when a piece of broken glass cut me. I have never discussed this scar publicly. It is ordinarily covered by my ring, and not visible in photographs or video.'"
He set the paper down.
A quiet murmur rippled through the benches again, sharper this time. The judge rapped her gavel once, a reminder.
Adrien's gaze returned to Amara.
"Ms. Reyes," he said, "how did you know to draw that scar?"
Every nerve in her body seemed to light up at once.
"I didn't… know," she said. Her tongue felt too big. "I… made it up."
"You made it up," he repeated. "And it just happens to match a private, non-public scar my client has, in the same position, on the same finger, under the same ring you claim you accidentally designed to resemble his."
"It's a common place for scars," she said weakly. "People cut their hands. They get hurt. Rings can catch on things. I drew what looked right."
"You draw scars for dramatic effect," he said. "I understand. But drama aside, we're left with three possibilities, aren't we?" He ticked them off on his fingers. "One: you had access to information about this scar that we don't yet know about. Two: this is an astonishing coincidence. Three: your dreams are prophetic." He gave a small, skeptical smile on the last word.
A few people in the gallery snorted before they caught themselves.
"I don't have spies in his manicure appointments, if that's what you're asking," she said, heat flaring through her embarrassment.
"I'm asking," he said patiently, "if you have, at any point, received information from anyone who could have seen Mr. Valtor's hand without the ring. Personal staff. Medical personnel. A… friend."
"No," she said, more firmly. "I don't know anyone who even breathes the same air as him on purpose. I drew a line because it fit the theme. That's it."
Adrien tilted his head. "So we're left with coincidence… or dreams."
He let the word hang, its absurdity humming in the air.
"You're aware," he added, "that in some online spaces, fans have suggested you have a 'mystical bond' with my client?"
Her cheeks burned. "Fans say a lot of things," she muttered.
"Have you ever claimed, in any public or private forum, to have a psychic or supernatural connection to Mr. Valtor?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Because I don't."
"Never joked about 'seeing his true form in dreams'?" he pressed. "Answered comments suggesting that maybe he inspired your character in some… paranormal way?"
She thought frantically, sifting through months of late-night replies. "I… might have liked a joke or two," she admitted. "Sometimes people say wild things, and I react with emojis. That doesn't mean I believe I astral-project into his office."
The judge's eyebrows rose a fraction. Adrien's lips twitched.
"No one is accusing you of astral projection, Ms. Reyes," he said. "I'm simply pointing out that when you present detailed, intimate knowledge of someone's body in your work—knowledge that is not publicly available—and then say 'I dreamed it,' it strains credulity."
He stepped closer to the lectern again, the distance between them shrinking to a few feet.
"Isn't it more likely," he said softly, "that you saw an image of my client with his ring off somewhere? A leaked photo. A private social media post. Something not meant for broad circulation that stuck in your mind?"
"No," she said. "I don't… lurk his private anything. I barely lurk my own."
"Then perhaps an inside source?" he suggested. "An employee bragging about their boss's quirks. A friend of a friend."
"I don't have those friends," she snapped, the frayed edge of her patience showing. "I have a best friend who works in a bookstore, a landlord who wants me gone, and occasionally the barista who spells my name right. That's it."
Adrien watched her, weighing the flare of anger. "And yet," he said, gesturing to the screen, "you put a scar under a ring that in reality covers the same scar on my client's hand. That's convenient for your dreams."
"My imagination is weird," she said. "It pulls details from everywhere. I can't trace every line back to where it came from."
"Conveniently," he murmured.
He let the silence stretch for a beat, then glanced at the judge. "No further questions at this time, Your Honor," he said.
The judge turned to Patel. "Redirect?"
Patel stood halfway, then sat back down. "Not at this moment, Your Honor," he said. His eyes met Amara's briefly, apology in them. Pulling the scar thread would only tangle her more.
"Very well," the judge said. "Ms. Reyes, you may—"
"Your Honor," a voice cut in.
Not loud. Not raised.
But it sliced through the room like a finer blade than the gavel.
Lucian Valtor rose from his seat at counsel table.
"May I, with the Court's permission, ask a single clarifying question?" he said.
Adrien's head snapped toward him, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. This was not on any of the neat handouts.
The judge considered him. "Mr. Hale," she said to Adrien, "do you have any objection?"
Adrien hesitated for the first time that day. "As long as the question is limited and goes to the issues raised, no, Your Honor," he said slowly. "We don't intend to turn this into a cross-examination by the plaintiff personally."
The judge's gaze returned to Lucian. "One question," she said. "No speeches. Proceed."
He walked toward the well of the courtroom, smooth, unhurried. He stopped at the line he wasn't allowed to cross, a few feet from the witness stand. Close enough that Amara could see the faint stubble shadow on his jaw, the precise knot of his tie, the way the courtroom light caught the faint line of the scar at his mouth.
up close, behind the formal mask, there was something else in his face—curiosity tinged with something she couldn't name.
He rested his hands lightly at his sides. The ring caught the light: dark stone, heavy band, familiar.
"Ms. Reyes," he said quietly. No microphone, but the room was so still his voice carried anyway. "You've drawn my ring many times."
"I drew a ring," she said, but it sounded weak even to her.
"You've drawn it with an accuracy that my jewelers could verify," he said. "And you've drawn what is beneath it."
He lifted his left hand then, slowly, deliberately.
For a moment, the courtroom wasn't a courtroom. It was a panel—close-up, zoomed in on fingers everyone in the room had seen in photos but never like this.
He slid the ring off.
The motion was small. Intimate, somehow, in a way that made the air prickle.
On the screen, out of habit or instinct, Adrien clicked the remote. The image of her panel flickered back up: her Alpha's bare hand, scar exposed.
Lucian turned his own hand slightly, so the judge could see, so the attorneys could see, so the gallery could see.
There, on his ring finger, just below where the band sat, a pale crescent of raised skin curved around the base.
Almost identical to the one she'd inked a year ago.
No cameras were allowed, but every eye in the room recorded it.
A murmur surged, louder this time. The judge's gavel slammed down. "Order," she barked. "There will be order in this courtroom."
The noise subsided, but the tension didn't.
Lucian slid the ring back on, the metal hiding the scar as if nothing had happened.
His gaze never left Amara's face.
"How did you know about that?" he asked.
He didn't add anything else. No accusation, no legal dressing. Just that.
How did you know?
Her mouth went dry.
Because I saw it in a dream. Because I saw it when you held someone's hand in a hallway that doesn't exist. Because I have ink where my brain is supposed to be.
None of those would help.
"I didn't," she managed. The microphone picked up the crack in her voice and pushed it into every corner. "I just… drew what made sense for the scene."
"'Some marks don't show unless you take something off,'" he quoted quietly, the line from her own comic. Hearing him say it, with his voice, felt like the universe folding in on itself. "That was your caption."
"Yes," she whispered.
He tilted his head, very slightly. In his eyes, something flickered—not the overt gold of her nightmares, not anything anyone else could point at.
Just a brief, unnerving glint. Recognition. Or calculation.
"Thank you," he said.
He turned back toward counsel table.
The judge watched him go with an expression that was part irritation at the theatrics, part interest. "All right," she said. "That's enough drama for this hearing."
She looked at Amara again. "You may step down, Ms. Reyes."
Amara's legs carried her off the stand on autopilot. Down the two small steps, over the low threshold, back to the defense table.
Patel pulled out her chair. She sank into it, heart pounding.
"That question," he muttered under his breath, "did not help my blood pressure."
"I told the truth," she whispered back. "It just… doesn't sound like it."
He rubbed his temple. "No. It sounds like you either have a secret pipeline into his life, or you're… ah…"
"Crazy?" she supplied.
He winced. "Unreliable. Let's go with that."
From the benches behind them, she felt eyes on the back of her head—fans, reporters, strangers all trying to slot "dreams" and "hidden scar" into narratives of their own.
Somewhere in the middle of the room, Lucian settled back into his chair, ring back where it belonged, scar hidden again. From here, he looked perfectly human. Just another CEO defending his brand with an army of lawyers.
But Amara could still see the bare finger in her mind, the pale curve of skin that matched a panel she'd drawn in the quiet of her bedroom, months before she'd ever heard his voice.
Either she had lied.
Or something about the world was not what the judge's law books said it was.
Neither possibility was going to sound sane on a transcript.
The judge shuffled her papers, the sound oddly mundane after everything that had just happened.
"Counsel," she said, "I have enough for today. I'll give my ruling on the preliminary injunction after a short recess."
Her gavel came down again.
"All rise."
Everyone stood.
The circus paused once more.
But as Amara remained facing the bench, she could feel his gaze on the side of her face, sharp and questioning.
Not just How did you know?
But What else did you see?